


Little Boy Blue

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Humor, M/M, Remix, Sherlock Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to take another crack at it.<br/>A remix of "Mismatched" by BowlOfGlow, which told the sad tale of a younger, drugged-up Sherlock making an unsuccessful pass at the dishy Inspector Lestrade. For the Sherlock Remix challenge, round four.<br/>Complete as is, for now, but I'm working on a second part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mismatched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/435589) by [BowlOfGlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowlOfGlow/pseuds/BowlOfGlow). 



> Overdue thanks to Jay Tryfanstone for beta and advice, and to Taz and Carenejeans for laughing and support.

It’s for a case. He’s given himself permission. He’s a genius and he’s OK.

The first time Sherlock Holmes kissed Greg Lestrade was the last. _So far_ amended the soft half of Sherlock’s brain, **the half hit by a cricket bat when you were ten** _that you should have seen coming!  
_ “Shut up both of you,” Sherlock told himself, rather, told himself and the skull, who seemed to be paying attention behind those...hollow...

The first time Sherlock Holmes kissed Greg Lestrade, the last time Sherlock Holmes kissed Greg Lestrade, was **the time he turned you down.** _He didn’t want to take advantage._ **He didn’t want you.** _He lusted after you._ YOU MUST HAVE BEEN VERY PRETTY THEN said the skull, deciding to speak up.

“If I wanted a talking skull, I’d have asked Mycroft round,” said Sherlock. **You did. He left.** _If John were here..._ “Shut up shut up, you’re distracting me!” _I miss John._ **A most agreeable idiot.** WITH A LOVELY ROUND ARSE **_yes, yes_** “One at a time! And shut up. And John, as you all know,” he tried to glare at the inner voices and the suck-up on the mantle and made himself dizzy; “John, as we all know, is married and buggered off and gone.” He flapped a hand elegantly, barked his pajama-clad shin on the coffee table, and fell sideways onto the couch. **You’re thirsty. Are you thirsty?** _You could eat. There are biscuits in the skull._ NOT ANY MORE. ROUND-ARSE NICKED THEM **_“You’re lying,”_** said all three of him. They agreed on that, at least. “And his arse is not particularly round. You know,” said Sherlock, rapping on the table, “who has a lovely arse? Inspector Lestrade. Which brings us to the crux of the matter: The last time I...”  
 **I don’t suppose you could fetch those biscuits while you’re talking, Oh Lord of Transport? And tea, who wants tea?** _With honey, you know you love honey._ I REMEMBER TEA. BUT BISCUITS, NO, GONE, LONG GONE. MYCROFT TOOK THEM

Sherlock lay fully on his back and raised his very much not talking to anyone phone, thank you, before his eyes. He stabbed in a text and let the phone fall on his breast. “It’s done,” he announced. He closed his eyes **Oh, don’t do that.** _wheeeeeeeeeeeeerrrllllll oh no, don’t do that. His name is Greg?_  
  
“You’re useless when I’m high,” said Sherlock. He opened his eyes, though. _I’m not; I get you sex._ **You used to get us sex.** I REMEMBER... **Nobody cares. Tea, Sherlock, tea tea tea tea** “ I got us sex,” said Sherlock, sweeping an arm to indicate his ‘transport’ artfully arranged on the cushions. “And continuing that line of thought, I’ve ordered...” **You’ve told us all ad nauseam that we’re not interested in sex** _I miss John._ **...unless this is an experiment, in which case, after tea, I have some guidelines I’d like us all to...** _John was very interesting._  
“...in,” said Sherlock. “You lot carry on without me.” He hauled himself up and staggered to the kitchen. YOU’RE STILL VERY PRETTY “And you’re a brainless old Swedenborgian. Where are the biscuits?”

There was an unopened packet of environmentally sustainable oat and woodchip disks, no doubt courtesy of Mrs Hudson, whose nephew despaired of her diet and Earth soul. Sherlock scowled at them, willing them to transform into those greasy crunchy articles John used to buy. _I miss John._ **They’re Butter Crinkles and you ate them all a week ago. Check the skull.** I CLAIM RELIGIOUS IMMUNITY

“You lot shut up, or we’re taking a little field trip!” Sherlock gathered up the revolting biscuits (the label had a grinning squirrel) and the jar of peanut butter and he put down the revolting biscuits and the peanut butter and filled the kettle and picked up the revolting biscuits and the peanut butter and put down the revolting biscuits and the peanut butter and hit the kettle ‘on’ button and stared at the revolting biscuits and left the kitchen. “I have a nice, padded cell, one occupant, lately vacated...” **Not the damned ‘mind palace’ nonsense, we’ve talked about this...** _I like the costumes._ **Speaks our inner adolescent girl.** Sherlock picked up the skull and shook it until its teeth would have rattled and a half-full roll of the other crispy greasy things John liked fell out. YOU’RE VERY CLEVER. The skull would have sobbed, if it could. The kettle switch clicked and Sherlock remembered he was out of tea.

***

_Come at once, I need you._  
For a case. SH  
... 

_Bring tea. SH  
..._

_Bring Butter Crinkles. SH  
..._

_Come on! Case! Case! Case! SH_  
  
***

“No tea, experiment. Working!” said Sherlock, forestalling complaints. He dropped the phone on the carpet. _But you want tea._ **Tea is not food, tea is essential. Have Mrs Hudson bring tea.** _it’s late, you’re high, she’ll be upset._ **These biscuits are stale. Have Mrs Hudson bring biscuits.** “Experiment!” said Sherlock, loudly. He gestured with a stale biscuit, dribbling crumbs. “On two fronts. Mizz Fizz, the first, experiment underway: the proposed successor to mephedrone,” **M-cat** _Meow-Meow_ “Yes, stunningly obvious, thank you so much—a stimulant in beta, touted as a euphoric, to be marketed as the safe ‘party drug,’ a violence inhibitor,” **That would be the Nymphaea-splice and octopamine.** _Euphoric, not manic._ “and hence the alibi for D.C. Plimper, undercover.” _dishy_ “in the murder of Fatsy Nats,” _Fancy Pants_ **Fazio Nez** “Exactly, you recall the rest.” I LOVE TO WATCH YOU WORK _I miss John._

“Exactly. Front the second: kissing Greg Lestrade, circumstances and variables of. Reasons for, reasons...” **why he rejected you.** _You were young, you were high._ **He’s straight.** _He’s not that straight._ **you drool when you’re high..** _He wanted you._ TO KNOW YOU IS TO LOVE YOU

**It’s really not**. 

“Plus or minus?” asked Sherlock, destroying another biscuit in his fist. “Prolonged acquaintance is conducive to sex?” **You said kissing.** “...to kissing, or a deterrent?” **We did all the sex experiments, exhaustively, at uni.** “Kissing as a prelude...” **‘Married to my work’ and all, sex doesn’t interest us anymore.** _If it were conducive, if to know us is...what about John, then?_ **John’s straighter than Lestrade; and we never threw ourselves at John** “Exactly. We...I...there is an established history with Lestrade,” **Nearly a decade ago.** _He thought you were younger than you were._ “and it should have worked. It didn’t.” _He didn’t give it a chance._ **He pushed you off.** “I intend to repeat the experiment. I’m high, again. Not depressed, not racing, but high,” _euphoric_ **no drool** “and I’m older. If he doesn’t engage this time...” **you should be both sober and older** “Perhaps next time.” Sherlock swallowed. THROW HIM AROUND A BIT, THEN KISS HIM; I’VE SEEN THAT IN THE MOVIES 

**Why are you doing this, again?** “Experiment. I said.” _You want him to kiss you back._ **proving?** “I’ve been meaning to get around to this. For ages. Convenient, stoned now.” HEIGHT OF YOUR PERSONAL MAGNETISM. ASIDE FROM THE SCARS. “And I,” Sherlock brushed crumbs from the dressing gown he seemed to have acquired, the one that had caused D.I. Lestrade’s eyebrow to lift, once. “I want to.” _Oh, Sherlock, you hopeless arse._ OF COURSE, MANY MEN ARE INTRIGUED BY SCARS 

Front door, unlocked, opening. Footsteps coming up the seventeen steps to Sherlock’s door. **Carrying something, weight commensurate with tea and Butter Crinkles** I’VE ALWAYS FOUND HIM RUGGEDLY HANDSOME _Oh, Sherlock._

At the knock: “Come in,” said Sherlock. He stood barefoot in the center of the rug, surrounded by crumbs, curls in disarray, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, dressing gown agape. Lestrade looked him up and down, Lestrade in his blue striped shirt, his worn khaki trousers, his collar undone, his left hand holding a carry bag, his brown eyes warm, his lips lovely.

_**“It’s for a case.”** _


End file.
